Simple Truths
by Steampunkd7
Summary: The Nordics walk in to find Iceland sprawled on his back and bleeding from a cut on his head, with France practically straddling him. There's actually a reasonable explanation, not that Norway waits to hear it. Fluff and violence, not in that order.


Disclaimer: If I owned it, this wouldn't be fanfiction

Warnings: Slighty OCC/ protective!Norway, sleepy/dreamy!Iceland

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><p>"Yo Ice, run and get me my jacket. I left it in the conference room." Denmark flashed a big smile at the youngest Nordic nation who was scowling at him.<p>

"No. Get it yourself."

"No, you get it."

"I'm not your slave."

"But you are the youngest." Denmark slapped a hand down on Iceland's shoulder in what looked like a friendly gesture but was actually hard enough to make the hotheaded young nation's knees buckle a bit. "That puts you at the bottom of the pecking order. Now be a good boy and go fetch it for me."

Iceland glowered at him then glanced at Norway. His big brother was standing by impassively. He didn't seem to care at all that his brother was being not-quite bullied into running Denmark's errands.

"Everyone's waiting," Norway finally remarked.

Iceland flashed him an angry and hurt look and glanced briefly at the other Nordics. Sweden stood by scowling while Finland looked like he would have liked to say something but couldn't find the courage.

"Fine," muttered Iceland. He turned and stalked back into the hotel where the World Summit was supposed to be in session. But like all world conferences, things had a way of going awry and this one was no exception. Half the nations had been paying attention, and like always, half had been goofing off, napping, slacking, or causing some other sort of ruckus. The Italies had been cooking. How no one had spotted them with their hotplate, cooking pasta sooner was a mystery, but when it was finally noticed, they'd been given the order to cease and desist. That hadn't gone over well, and now the meeting was adjourned until the hotel's cleaning staff scrubbed tomatoes off the walls, tried to get the spaghetti off the chandelier, and mopped up the two gallons of olive oil that had been spilt on the floor.

"You know, it's not nice to bully him into running your errands, Denmark," said Finland once Iceland was gone from their group. "And I'm surprised at you, Norway, allowing him to. He's your little brother, isn't he?"

"He needs to learn to stand up for himself. He won't do that if I fight all his battles for him."

"Yeah." Denmark laughed. "We're just toughening him up a little."

"How so?" Finland's eyes narrowed in criticism. "This only ever ends two ways: with Ice-kun caving and doing what you tell him, to avoid causing more problems, or with him blowing up at everyone, and rightfully so I might add, yelling, then sulking and ruining the rest of the day for everyone."

Denmark looked a little bit guilty, probably realizing it was true. "If you said something, I'd lay off Norway," he said to his best friend.

"He shouldn't have to say anything. You should know better to begin with. You always say you're the oldest, but you don't act like it," said Finland.

"I cannot fight all of Iceland's battles for him," Norway said looking like he didn't care one way or the other.

"N'thing wrong w'th stick'ng up for y'r little br'ther," Sweden put in his opinion. A disapproving look was on her face.

Norway looked impassive as always, but perhaps something they'd said had sunk in because he didn't meet their gazes or say anything in his own defense.

They waited for Iceland to return.

And waited.

And waited a little longer. Soon it became obvious that more than a reasonable amount of time had passed and Iceland still wasn't back.

"Do you think perhaps he took off on his own?" Finland wondered out loud.

"It's p'ssible," said Sweden.

"I bet the little brat's messing with my coat or something," Denmark said.

"We should go check on him. It's been too long," Norway gave his verdict.

And with those words the Nordics stormed the building. Well not so much stormed, but people in the hallways got out of their way when they saw the Nordic nations coming because it was clear that they were on a mission and woe would befall any who got in their way.

They were right outside the conference rooms when Norway made a motion for them all to halt. His face had suddenly gained an expression, and one of alarm at that, as his sharp ears had picked up something before the others had heard it. But when they froze they could all hear it. Familiar voices, one more familiar than the other. The more familiar one full of fear and pain, the less familiar one still recognizable and evoking feelings of contempt and in this case rage.

"Stop struggling, mon cheri. This will be easier if you just relax."

"No! Get off me! Just get off! Please!" Iceland's cry ended in a pained whimper reminiscent of a hurt kitten's mewling.

"Non. Now stop struggling . . ."

Whatever else the frog said was drowned out by the thunder of footfalls as the four elder Nordics charged at full speed. Sweden, having the longest legs, reached the door first and kicked it down, not bothering with something so trivial as a doorknob at a time like this. Denmark was the first to storm through, having the next longest legs, but Norway was right behind him, his panic pretty much giving him wings.

Denmark froze at the sight before them and felt his rage building like a volcano as he took it in.

Iceland lay sprawled on his back, bleeding from a cut on his head, his slender form pinned underneath France who was on top of him, practically straddling him. France was holding both Iceland's wrists in one hand as Iceland weakly tried to fend him off. The young Nordic looked especially small and helpless trapped beneath France, his face clouded with fear and pain. His eyes were huge and glassy as tears trickled down the sides of his face.

Denmark was glad that he still carried his axe everywhere with him. "Why you . . ." he started to growl and was about to charge forward and full out attack France, consequences be damned, when suddenly . . .

**"I'LL KILL YOU!"** Norway surged forward and his France with a sort of flying tackle, knocking him clear off the hapless Iceland and when they landed it was Norway who ended up on top. "You are **DEAD** France! I will **KILL** you! That's my little brother you were messing with, and you crossed the line there you pedophile bastard freak! **YOU CROSSED THE LINE!"**

As much as the other Nordics, even Finland, would have liked to join in the fray and deliver a few (dozen) blows of their own to France, it was clearly neither necessary nor possible. Norway pummeled him repeatedly, screaming insults and death threats. France feebly tried to defend himself but it was quite clear that he was gravely outmatched. Norway's fury was not to be denied.

Finland was the first to realize that there would be no turn taking in beating up France. Norway was taking care of that himself and anyone who tried to interfere was more likely to get caught in the crossfire, so Finland decided to make himself useful another way. He hurried over to Iceland who was trying to sit up, looking dazed and confused. Blood and something else dripped from his hair and skin and he seemed to be having a very difficult time using his arms to brace him so that he could sit up.

When Finland went to him he nearly fell down too. It was then that he realized Iceland was lying in a slick of olive oil, courtesy of the Italies' cooking disaster. After realizing that he proceeded with caution and knelt down beside Iceland, pulling the youngest Nordic off the floor and halfway into his lap.

"F-Finland?"

"It's okay, Ice-kun. We're here," Finland told him soothingly. "You don't have to be afraid anymore."

"What's going on?" Iceland's speech was a little slurred and he still seemed very confused. In fact, looking at him, Finland realized that there was something wrong with his eyes. His pupils seemed to be dilated different amounts. He most likely had a concussion, Finland realized.

"Don't worry about it," Finland said in regards to Iceland's question. "After your brother kills France we'll get you to a doctor."

"He okay?" asked Denmark. He moved to stand near them, recognizing the oil slick on his own without having to nearly fall in it, and carefully navigated around it to kneel beside them. Sweden stood closer to Norway and France just in case something happened and France managed to get the other hand, and also waiting to see if an opportunity arose for him to land a kick or two of his own.

He wasn't sure when he became aware that the Nordics weren't alone in the conference room with France. There was someone else there too, someone who'd been there since their arrival, who was now trying to get their attention. Sweden scowled, at first wondering how he'd managed to miss the fact that the annoying America was in the room with them before realizing that it was that other guy who just looked like America . . . That guy who was west of Greenland.

"Stop. Please, you really must stop. There is an explanation you need to hear!"

Sweden grabbed the guy who's name he'd just remembered was Canada by his collar and slammed him into the conference room wall. "So y'r on his side, huh?"

"What? No!"

"Bloody hell, where did he come from?" swore Denmark. He stood up and looked around the room in case more enemies appeared out of no where.

"France wasn't trying to molest Iceland! This is all just a misunderstanding!" shouted Canada. "France and I were talking when Iceland slipped in the oil and hit his head. France went to try to help him but slipped too, and landed on top of him. Then Iceland woke up and was distraught and confused and started trying to make France get off him, but France was determined to treat his wound and was trying to subdue him for that reason alone!"

Norway paused in the act of pummeling France. "Is this true?" he asked, but France was unconscious and in no condition to answer.

"Just look at them," said Canada. "Iceland is practically covered in olive oil and that cut on his head will match the backs of the chairs. There might even be some of his blood on the one he hit his head on."

Denmark warily moved to check, and sure enough, on the chair right next to the one he'd been sitting in during the meeting, there as a smudge of blood on the chair's back, as well as a single silvery white strand of hair stuck to the wood. Denmark felt a twist of guilt when he noted his jacket, still on the chair right next to the one Iceland had hit his head on. If he hadn't sent Iceland to get his jacket then Ice wouldn't be lying dazed on the floor, bleeding from his head.

"It's true, Norway," Denmark said. "Ice hit his head on this chair.

Norway didn't look completely convinced. "Is that true, Iceland?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Iceland. His eyelids dropped down so they were half closed. "My head hurts."

"He has a concussion," explained Finland. "We should get him to a doctor and make sure his brain isn't bruised."

Denmark lifted his jacket off the chair, wrapped it around Iceland like a blanket, then lifted him out of Finland's lap. This way he wouldn't get the oil that was on Iceland all over himself too. His jacket would be a mess, but that was fine. At that moment Denmark didn't really care about his jacket one way or the other. What he cared about was the sleepy looking teen in his arms. Iceland might have been Norway's official brother, but it was true that the Nordics had always been kind of like brothers, and Denmark truly saw Iceland as his little brother too. If something had happened to Iceland because Denmark had been being a jerk to him, Denmark didn't think he'd have been able to forgive himself.

"Don't let him fall asleep," Finland said. "People with head injuries aren't supposed to sleep."

Norway got off of France and left him laying there in a pool of his own blood for Canada to take care of. He walked over quickly and rested a gentle hand on Iceland's brow.

"What are you doing?" Iceland asked blinking at him myopically. He was young enough and cute enough that the effect came across as dreamy.

"Trying to slow down my heart rate," Norway answered honestly. "You scared me, little brother."

"Sorry." Iceland yawned and closed his eyes.

Denmark shook him. "Stay awake, Ice."

Iceland blinked up at him, confused, but kept his eyes open as they began walking out of the building.

They hailed a cab, and Norway and Denmark clambered in with Iceland. Finland and Sweden would flag down another cab and follow behind them.

"Give him here," Norway ordered once they were seated and Denmark still held Iceland.

Denmark shook his head. "He's comfortable here now. There's no need to move him."

Norway scowled and looked like he wanted to argue, but decided that Iceland's comfort was more important than his own wants.

"So, what happened to letting Icey here fight his own battles?" Denmark asked slyly, for no other reason than to annoy Norway.

But Norway's anger or annoyance levels didn't seem to rise. Instead a cold glint flashed in his eyes and a look of resolve crossed his face. "That's only for trivial things, things he is capable of dealing with alone," Norway told Denmark. "If anyone tries to deliver more than he can deal with, or if anyone is stupid enough to really try hurting him, then I'll kill them. It's really very simple. Even you should be able to understand it."

Denmark gave a good natured laugh, letting the insult slide off him like water as he always did, and looked down at Iceland, waiting for the miniature eruption that always accompanied anyone suggesting that Iceland was too young to handle something on his own.

But Iceland, in his drowsy concussed state, surprised them by smiling dreamily and reaching out a hand to touch Norway's face and utter another very simple but true statement.

"I love you too, big brother."


End file.
